Changing the tide
by Harrington221B
Summary: When Sherlock collapses at a crime scene, John realises that a sociopath with an addictive personality isn't always as fun as it seems. Is there any use to try and change a crashing tide? No slash.
1. Chapter 1

It was a cold February morning at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was in the kitchen, wearing safety glasses and stirring what looked like fingernails in a vat of tomato juice on the stove. John was on the sofa, his laptop heating up his lap as he typed slowly and carefully. They had just finished a case involving a maid, a cocker spaniel and arsenic – John called it 'Sleeping dogs lie' and was almost finished typing it up on his blog.

3 consecutive sharp raps at the door knocked them both out of the concentrated trance they had been in, raps like that meant one thing – Lestrade. A quick eye contact between the two of them as a consensus of understanding, Sherlock pulled of his safety glasses and set them to one side, knowing that Lestrade meant a case.

'The door's open.' John called out, flexing his arms in preparation.

The door swung open and Lestrade stood at the door awkwardly holding a rich tea biscuit in his hand, John gave him a confused but comedic look; however it was soon explained when Mrs Hudson appeared behind him, holding the almost full packet of biscuits for the boys, something of a habit.

'Greg, you know you don't have to knock dear, just come right in.' said Mrs Hudson, in her grandmother type authority about her.

Lestrade stared for a moment and gave her an awkward smile. John looked at the ground to conceal the comedy of Mrs Hudson's idiosyncrasies. John wondered over to Mrs Hudson, accepted the packet of biscuits and put them on the table, next to the stove where Sherlock was still stood.

'OK, we've got a double homicide up on Fleet Street, looks like a robbery gone wrong.' said Lestrade, directing it at John, as Sherlock was not likely to be interested in particulars.

'But…?' Sherlock inquired, not looking up at Lestrade.

'But I don't think it is a robbery gone wrong. You see there are two different murder weapons, two victim types and at least 3 sets of footprints around the bodies. It was raining this morning, and the footprints are fresh, which puts them there a few hours ago, the time of death.' Lestrade replied.

'Right – well we'll follow up behind in a taxi, hard to tell without seeing the crime scene.' John said, ushering Sherlock out of the kitchen.

The taxi pulled up at the top end of Fleet Street, the whole street was cordoned off with police tape so it wasn't hard to find the exact location. Donovan and Anderson were exchanging insults when they walked over.

'Hello freak.'

Sherlock sighed, but ignored any eye contact with Donovan, John following suit and doing the same, he gave a polite nod in their direction. Sherlock went through the police tape first with his natural air of authority, holding the tape up for John to quickly duck under.

The police presence thickened as they got nearer to the bodies but they could see Lestrade up ahead, in the midst of all the commotion. It was a female victim, attractive, late 20's and dressed in fairly casual attire. She was sprawled out with her right arm sticking at an odd angle, presumably broken. A thin trickle of blood had dried near her temple, consistent with a blow to the head. The other victim was older and a male, maybe early 40's and in a jet black full business suit. A circular stain had penetrated through his white shirt underneath, originating from around the heart area; the messiness implied it was more than likely a stab wound.

John greeted Lestrade with a nod, and peered at the two bodies. As usual, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary apart from what Lestrade had already mentioned back at the flat. He glanced over at Sherlock, expecting him to be on his hands and knees, sniffing the man's tie or something of the sort. However, John did a quick double take when he saw Sherlock; he was standing perfectly still, his eyes fixated on the young woman. If John didn't know better, he's almost say Sherlock looked…sympathetic? But no, he's obviously already solved it and is merely bored already.

'Sherlock? Do enlighten us.'

John peered round at him but Sherlock ignored him, he continued staring at the young woman with the same expression on his pale face. Wait. – Pale. He was looking a lot paler than normal, and his piercing blue eyes almost looked a little jaded. He knew something was wrong.

'Sherlock?'

No answer, no reaction.

Lestrade also picked up on the unusual behaviour from the normally world's only 'insulting' detective.

'Mate? Err...care to share with us?'

At Lestrade's voice, Sherlock very slowly turned his head just a few inches towards Lestrade and John, but keeping his eyes on the women.

'She's dead.'

OK, now this was very odd. Pale face. Duller eyes. Daydreaming state. Stating obvious facts. This is not Sherlock. John and Lestrade exchanged equally worried looks. As they did, Sherlock tore his stare away from the body, spun around and marched out of the crime scene.

'Sherlock!' they said in unison.

'I'll go after him, he seemed fine this morning.'

Although by 'fine' John meant anti-social, not eating and not sleeping- the usual Sherlock.

John jogged back down Fleet Street and followed Sherlock back under the red tape. Sherlock was almost 6 inches taller than John, and therefore walked at a considerably faster pace, his coat swishing violently behind him, catching in the wind. He finally caught up to the taller man another 100 metres down the road but he merely waved his hand as an impatient ushering to leave him alone.

'Sherlock!' he shouted, in a somewhat fruitless attempt to attract his attention.

'What's going on?' he added.

Realising that his own voice won't have an effect on Sherlock, John touched his shoulder lightly, almost as a slight comforter. Sherlock spun round in an aggression reaction to the touch. John physically stepped away from him. His face was ghostly white, his eyes terribly grey and his lips pursed tight, as though he was going to be sick. He looked terrifyingly ill. As John thought that, Sherlock seemed to sway on the spot, like he was losing his balance a little.

'Sherlock? You need to tell me what's wrong? Are you sick?'

John knew he wouldn't get a reply but he had half a mind to call an ambulance. Sherlock's breathing was almost erratic and palms looked sweaty. He knew that Sherlock could control a lot of his body's reactions, so if this was his controlled state, what was really going on? John attempted to go into 'Doctor Mode' and scanned him up and down checking for another symptoms but nothing could explain this sudden onset of foreign behaviour.

Suddenly, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but only a choking sound managed to escape. His whole body was shaking and he stumbled towards the nearby terracotta wall and leant on it for support. John reached into his pocket for his phone, but in one swift motion Sherlock knocked it out of his hand and it skidded across the pavement.

'No.'

The word could only just be heard as it was more of a mime than a sound but Sherlock had obviously used a lot of strength to breathe it out. He was staring wide eyed at the pavement, his hands intertwined together like tight knots.

'OK OK, no ambulances but you need to talk to me. Just nod or shake your head. OK?'

Sherlock's curls bounced a little as he nodded slowly and awkwardly.

'Does it hurt anywhere?'

Again, the same motion – a small awkward nod. John felt like he was telling a young child off for stealing something.

'OK good, we're getting somewhere. Now just point to where it hurts for me Sherlock.'

He lifted his right palm up and slowly managed on rest it on his chest. His breathing still erratic, John riddled through the symptoms again. Increased heart rate, tachycardia, sweaty palms, hyperventilation, and loss of colour in the skin...it sounded like some sort of attack on his body.

'OK umm, right. We need to move you. Can you walk?'

He nodded for the third time and pushed himself of the wall. It was too much for him to handle and in an instant his whole body seemed to collapse and crumble onto the floor, and he lost consciousness. It happened so suddenly, John didn't have time to catch him. He leant down next to Sherlock and gently shook him.

'Shit. Sherlock? Sherlock!?' I need you to wake up now. Shit. Shit. Shit.'

He bounced across the street and reached for his phone, punching in Mycroft's number.

'Mycroft? It's John. I need help at this location. Umm, Sherlock there's something wrong and I..I..don't know what to do. He's got a pulse I think, wait-'

He grabbed Sherlock's bony wrist and checked for a pulse, it was only just there. He felt like an idiot for not being more specific, but this was Sherlock; he couldn't think straight.

'OK yeah, there's a pulse. But it's weak. Very weak.'

'There's an equipped car on the way, it will be with you in 3 and a half minutes.'

John didn't even want to think about how Mycroft could get an equipped car here so fast. All he could focus on was the raggedy man sprawled awkwardly on the pavement, barely conscious and with faint breath sounds.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As Mycroft had promised, a taxi-like car with tinted windows pulled up almost 4 minutes after the phone call. A bulky but efficient looking man stepped out the driver's side wearing a long leather jacket and a tailored navy suit.

'Mr. Holmes delivers a message: You will find all the necessary equipment in the back, a complete medical kit and a defibrillator.'

The man opened the back door of the car and stepped back into the driver's seat. John looked down once more at the friend and prepared his muscles; he was going to have to have to carry an unconscious man into the back of a car. He peered into the inside; it was spacious with too long seats either side with enough room for John to examine him.

Taking a deep breath, he heaved Sherlock onto his shoulders like a fireman's carry and haphazardly placed him on one of the seating units. Sherlock felt unnaturally light for his height but he had always been that way. Closing the door behind him, the taxi-car sped off. He hadn't instructed the driver where to go, but that was the least of his worries.

'OK, OK.' He said to himself. His hands shaking, he pulled off his sweater and ran his fingers through his hair, his emotional attachment to Sherlock was obviously not separate to his medical knowledge. His brain was just fireworks and he couldn't think straight over the sound of his heart screaming.

In a reckless last hope to find a cause, John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and forced it up his wrist. He almost stopped breathing himself when he saw. There were at least 20 track marks, riddled around the vein of his wrist, some old, some fresh. At least he knew what he was dealing with now; heroin was Sherlock's drug of choice according to Lestrade.

'Sherlock, Sherlock!' At John's voice, Sherlock's eyes seem to flutter very lightly and his head lolled to one side, his lips slightly parting.

'I know you can hear me, I need you to wake up OK? I know about the drugs, I don't care about it but just tell me how much you've taken or I can't help you.' He very gently slapped the side of his face, his fingers hitting Sherlock's cheekbones.

The noise that came out of Sherlock's mouth was not human. It was like the straggled cry of a new born puppy, trying to attract the attention of his mother. His eyes half opened to reveal the grey tinged eyes underneath. At least he was awakening, thought John, who had feared for the worst. If he was awakening then at least he hadn't taken enough heroin to cause serious damage.

_**BUZZ!**_

John's phone violently vibrated in his trouser pocket. He grabbed for it and flipped the screen up.

_**2 new messages**_

_**Is Sherlock OK? Text me ASAP. – Lestrade.**_

_**You are being taken to a private hospital. He is now is your care now John. Although if I were you, I would check his forearms. – Mycroft Holmes.**_

John ignored both the messages, Lestrade could wait and Mycroft hasn't even asked how he was. Sherlock was stirring on the seat. His vitals seemed a little stronger so John took the seat opposite and rested his elbows on his knees, intertwining his fingers together.

'Where…what…?'

John had closed his eyes for a minute, maybe two. He shot up when he heard the familiar voice of Sherlock. He had managed to shift into a less awkward position on the long seat and was staring at the ceiling of the car, presumably because it was the only thing he could look at, whilst still avoiding John's eye contact.

'You are an idiot. You could have killed yourself! I had to call Mycroft, he's taking you to some private hospital.'

'Not...not my intention.' Sherlock was obviously still fighting to get his words out, his breathing was still a little erratic and his eyes weren't fully open yet.

'What?' John replied impatiently, grabbing Sherlock's wrist a little too harshly and feeling his pulse – it was still weak but not at a dangerous level.

'I said...not my _intention.' _He repeated, snatching his wrist away from John, and attempting to roll down his sleeved again. He had woken up almost fully now, and was trying to figure out where he was.

'Not your intention to do _what_, Sherlock.' John took Sherlock's arms, and rolled down the sleeves for him, hiding the years of self substance abuse.

'To…kill myself, I didn't…want to die.'

'Then what was this!?' John cried, grabbing Sherlock's arm and holding it out in full view.

'An experiment? A test of strength? I cry for help?'

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. But it was a different look than his deduction glare. This was almost…human.

'No.' Sherlock's voice was small, but even John knew he wasn't lying.

For a second, they broke eye contact and each went into their own small world. If a stranger could see the scene, it would look like two very guilty men confessing a secret to each other.

'Can't you see John?' Sherlock looked at the older man again, this time his voice was clear and stronger.

'I don't need help, I never asked for it, did I?

John furrowed his brow.

'Look, in my books you asked for help the moment your body hit the ground. You overdosed Sherlock. Just accept it. Besides, I thought we were done with all the silly drugs.'

'They aren't _silly! _I need them. They're the only thing that distracts me from all of this.'

Sherlock waved his hands as though he was encompassing the world like he was trying to show John the vast extent of his problem.

'All of this? You mean life? You mean me? What the hell is wrong with you Sherlock!?'

Sherlock pushed himself up to be in the sitting position and stared out the window, his arms relaxing by his side.

'You should probably call Mycroft and tell him not to bother sending me to the hospital.'

John sighed again and could tell he was trying to change the subject. However Sherlock had a point. He had regained some colour back in his face, and his breathing was a lot more consistent now. John was a doctor himself, there was no need to involve other doctors when John could do the job.

_**Recipient - Mycroft: Tell the driver to take us to Baker Street. I'll deal with Sherlock there.**_

_**SEND.**_

20 seconds later came a swift reply from Mycroft.

_**Very well. You know where I am if you need me and I advise you take some **__**buprenorphine with you from the medical supply kit.**_

Without telling Sherlock what he was taking, he reached down for the green box with 'M.S.K' engraved on and took out the buprenorphine, slipping it into his trouser pocket. Considering they had been in the taxi a long time, the journey back to Baker Street didn't seem to take very long.

'You know we have to talk about this don't you? It has to stop.' John had broken the thick silence with a paternal voice as the taxi pulled up to 221B and the man stepped out to open the door.

John climbed out first, taking his and Sherlock's coat with him. He then watched as Sherlock awkwardly clambered out the cab, holding onto the side for support. John thanked the driver and put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. As the cab drove away, both the men stayed silent as John unlocked the door.

'OK, can you walk?'

Without answering him, Sherlock grabbed onto the wall for support and used it as a sort of backwards abseil to get up the stairs. John followed closely behind, making sure he didn't trip and add more damage to himself.

'You need to rest.' John said, as they reached the top of the stairs. 'On the sofa though, where I can see you.'

As they got to the top, Sherlock stopped and composed himself a little. He didn't argue with the doctor, he wasn't in any state to.


	3. Chapter 3

Changing the tide – Chapter 3.

In the flat of 221B, Sherlock stumbles onto the sofa and lets out a sigh, almost completely deflating.

'It was the mother.'

John was locking the door when Sherlock's voice came from the sofa.

'What Sherlock?'

'I said, it was the mother.'

Sherlock unties the laces on his shoes, his hands still shaking. He manages to pull them off with difficulty and throws them onto the other sofa.

'What was the mother? Oh, you mean the crime scene? Lestrade can deal with that, you just rest for now. Look your hands are still shaking.'

There was no denying it. Sherlock was exhausted. The adrenaline was wearing off quickly, quicker than he was used to. He wanted to argue, but a dusty fog was already building around his eyeline.

'Mm. K. Sleep might be beneficial I guess. Just don't attempt to give me that buprenorphine whilst I'm asleep.'

He rolled over into the foetal position before John could reply. John listened. After a minute or two he could hear Sherlock breath sounds become deeper and more consistent.

After he was sure Sherlock was sound asleep, he walked over to the other sofa, took Sherlock's shoes off the sofa, chucked them across the room and sat down. He didn't realise how tired he was until he could hear the therapeutic breathing of Sherlock opposite him.

Sleep seemed to be an excellent idea, but he couldn't. We would never forgive himself if he dozed off and Sherlock stopped breathing. Instead, John reached for his phone and texted Lestrade, thinking about his words carefully.

_**Sorry, was busy with Sherlock. He'll be fine. Maybe need a couple of days off though, John.**_

He was about to press send when suddenly he remembered what Sherlock had said before.

_**P.S – Sherlock says to interview the mother. **_

_**Sent. **_

Mycroft next. No doubt he knows what's going on but Mycroft was a man to keep on his side, so he thought of the words to send to the addict's brother.

_**Sherlock sleeping. I am monitoring him, will let you know if anything changes. – John Watson**_

_**Sent.**_

John ran his fingers through his hair and looked over at Sherlock. How did he not notice the drug addict? How did he not see the symptoms? He was a doctor after all. If he had been hiding it this long, God knows he'll be able to continue. He thought back to all the times John went to a girlfriend's house, or went shopping, or went to cases alone to judge the interest. Sherlock would have had plenty of time.

_**BUZZ!**_

A message off Mycroft:

_**OK. This isn't your fault. He's fooled us all. – M Holmes.**_

Mycroft was just as good as Sherlock as reading minds. He was right though, this wasn't John's fault. This was Sherlock's choice. John puts the phone on the table and looks around the room. Right now, the best thing to do would be to get back to work, he thinks. Distract Sherlock from the drugs - anything to make him stop.

John pushes his tired body from the chair and drags himself to Sherlock's room. The room is almost bare apart from a few necessities; The Periodic Table of Elements poster, a table lamp, a desk, a cupboard and a single (hardly used) bed. The bed sheet is navy blue with the thick black border. John tried to think, if I were Sherlock where would I hide the drugs?

He checks under the bed, nothing apart from 2 Agatha Christie books. Obviously a past gift off Mycroft, shoved under the bed after reading 3 chapters and solving the murder. John sits on the bed and racks his brain: _Think. Think. Think._ If I am a genius, a deranged and drug addled genius, where do I hide my stash?

It was obvious. He was somewhat annoyed it had taken him this long to figure it out. Sherlock was a genius. He knew that. So why keep 2 Agatha Christie books that only confirmed it for him? He practically jumped off the bed and fell on the floor. John scrambled for the 2 books, dragging them both from under the bed. The spines were clearly cracked; a sign of a well read book. He took a breath and opened the cover. Both the books had been hollowed out, and sitting in the hollow was a vial and a needle. John actually smiled in achievement. He took the drugs out and slipped them into his pocket. Putting the books back where he found them, he went back to the living room where Sherlock was still sound asleep.

John sat back down on the sofa and noticed his phone flashing on the table where he had left it: A new message off Lestrade.

_**OK, take the time you need. When he wakes up, tell Sherlock he was right – the mother looks good for it. – Lestrade.**_

The mother of whom? John thinks back to the crime scene, the young woman and the older man; very differently dressed but same location. Oh, John understands now. The young women and man were father and daughter. It must be. But how on Earth did Sherlock know that?

'Left handedness.'

John's eyes snapped up at Sherlock, he was still in the same position but he had defiantly spoken.

'Left handedness?'

'Mmm.'

Sherlock stirred round, so he was facing John. His eyes looked tired, but John could just visualise the clogs in his mind whirring around trying to awaken and function properly.

'I'll take it that you've figured out they were related.'

'Yea. Obviously.'

John smiles as he says this, mimicking Sherlock's favourite catchphrase.

'How did you know Sherlock? You barely looked at them.'

'I told you, left handedness. Not very common, only about 10% of the population. The man had ink stains on his left hand from where he had been writing with his left hand. The women's nails were painted, but much neater on her right hand. And obvious tell tale of left handedness. Add that to the fact that the ages correspond to father and daughter, it's highly probable.'

'You got all that from one look? Actually. Don't answer that. I know you did. But what about the mother? Why did you suspect her?'

'Think about it John. You've got a father and daughter murdered and there's no grieving wife or mother on scene. Little suspicious don't you think?'

'She could've been dead. Or missing herself.'

'No, didn't you see the daughter's shoes? At least 2 sizes too big and scuffed around the edges. She's not used to walking in them, because they're not hers. Too old fashioned to be a friend's which leaves a mother.'

'All right, all right. Well you were right-'

'Obviously.'

'Lestrade says she looks good for it.'

A silence issues between them for a minute, maybe more. John picks up the daily telegraph on the table.

'There's been a murder on Front Avenue. Second one in that area in 2 weeks. Could be a hit.'

Sherlock reaches his hand out for the newspaper, unfolding it fully and scanning the story.

'Doesn't look too dull.'

Sherlock takes out his phone, texting Lestrade.

_**Front Avenue murders? **_

_**Sent.**_

'You should sleep some more Sherlock, I would've taken you to hospital but the forms would be a nightmare.'

'What, so you can watch me sleep? I need to wait for Lestrade to text back.'

'We can't ignore this Sherlock; the overdose. Mycroft knows but I didn't tell Lestrade. I expect Mycroft will want to visit soon anyway, to check on his little brother.'

'Look John. I'm not suicidal. I'm not dangerous to anyone. I don't see the problem.'

Now it was John's turn to be too tired to argue.

'Fine. But know this, it won't happen again. You should count yourself lucky I'm not sending you to rehab. I know you don't do this for the same reason as addicts do, but you have a problem Sherlock. Problem's need to be fixed. Don't argue with me, you can't justify drugs.'

'You wouldn't understand anyway.'

This annoyed John. Not the drugs, but the fact that Sherlock thinks he wouldn't understand.

'You. Just. Don't. OK? You think I wouldn't understand? I watched my own sister's descent into alcoholism that tore our family apart. I watched her come home and yell at my parents into the small hours of the night then stumble up the stairs and blame me for all the problems she was having. I was 15 Sherlock. Fifteen years old! So don't tell me I don't understand addiction. I lived with one for 18 years until I joined the army.'

'I'm not like her. I wouldn't do the things she did to um, Iwouldn'thurtyou.'

'I know you wouldn't.'

A pregnant pause between the two filled the room with a slight awkwardness. A quick eye contact and it was a mutual agreement of trust. John trusted Sherlock. Sherlock trusted John.

'A little rest couldn't hurt, right?'

John smiled.

'OK, I'll make some dinner. You rest there and tell me if Lestrade calls. We'll just take it a step at a time.'

Sherlock nodded and rolled back over, falling back asleep.


End file.
